Lady Smith Lock and Key Pt. 04

"Pretty much," he admits.

"Let's go make this girl jealous."

--

The event is being held at the Moss Mansion. It's a museum. Its full title is the Moss Mansion Historical House Museum. Red sandstone structure, and still furnished with the original draperies, fixtures, Persian carpets and artifacts. Built in 1903 and designed by the American Architect Henry Janeway Hardenbergh, who also designed the Waldorf-Astoria hotel in New York. At least, that what the pamphlet says.

Today, it's just the nicest place in Billings, Montana for rich people not from Billings, Montana to still feel like they're in a rich place. Let's do a head count. Mayor, check. Chief of Police, check. At least two members of the city council, check. Everyone else isn't from here. All East and West Coast elites tired of paying East and West Coast taxes, slowly moving their money out of harm's way. I don't have a problem with people doing that, but don't run political ads to raise taxes after you've already sheltered your money in places I never could.

I must look good tonight, because heads are turning when we enter the mansion. Not bad for a twenty-dollar dress. Dylan shakes a few hands of people he knows, briefly introducing me to his associates. The women with these men literally end their introduction with where they went to school.

"Ursula Hershel, Harvard."

"Amanda Jansky, Oxford."

"Prissy McBitchyface, Brown."

"Lady Smith, high school dropout," I say back each time with an exaggerated accent I can't keep consistent. They slowly retract their hand as if the poor is contagious. Some think I'm being funny on purpose in a display of humility. Bless their hearts.

"How'd you catch this man?" Prissy McBitchyface asks. It comes off more like an accusation. That's funny, considering this bitch wouldn't look at a man without a trust fund.

"The way I catch all of them; with their pants down, s'cuse me, I see alcohol," I say and not so politely make my way to someone more my social class holding a tray. Champagne is never my first choice, but beggars can't be choosers.

"What the hell was that?" Dylan asks.

"Part of the plan. I'm the gold-digging whore Vanya needs to save you from," I say, instantly downing a glass and taking another. I nearly cough it up but manage not to. How the hell do people drink this? "It's one thing to make her jealous, but now she gets to be your hero."

"That might not work with Vanya," he says, taking his own champagne glass. "She just walked in."

I turn to the door and see a woman walk in about the same age as Dylan. The name Vanya created assumptions in my mind. A pale Russian or Slavic girl with dark hair and tacky jewelry followed by armed bodyguards shaped like trees. Instead, a petite black girl walks in looking normal as all hell. I snap my head back to Dylan who nods.

"That's Vanya?" I ask.

"Were you expecting her name to be LaQuesha?"

"I was expecting a Russian Oligarch if I'm being honest."

Vanya is kind of plain as well, but in the vein of the girl next door, making her more attractive. Her hair is tight black springs that bounce with her steps. Her body is shimmied into a tight emerald green dress with a cut on the left side. When compared to the over pampered women around her, her beauty is evidently more natural and effortless. She turns heads as well, and the women seem as dismissive of her as they are of me. Vanya also doesn't belong in this social class.

Vanya sees Dylan and temporarily freezes. A man gets her attention for a moment, her own date, but it doesn't hold her attention for long. Her date sure as hell has my attention. It's Lucas Justin. Then she sees me, and blinks concern with her eyes.

"Vanya was a scholarship student, wasn't she?" I ask, and Dylan nods.

"How'd you know?"

"Ms. Smith?" Lucas asks on the approach.

"Told you I was thinking about a fund-raiser tonight," I jest.

"How do you know each other?" Lucas asks Dylan who stammers a little.

"Locked out of his car, asked if I was doing anything later," I cover for him.

"This is Vanya," Lucas says. She's genuine and gracious in her introduction. She doesn't include a school her family likely founded.

"You are?" Vanya asks.

"Lady," I admit, for once in my life. She looks confused. "Lady is my first name, swear to God."

"How do you know Lucas?" Vanya asks.

"I work for him. I'm one of his drivers," I explain, and she nods with a grin. She actually likes me. I don't even like me.

The men start talking, and Vanya gestures to pull me aside. I place my champagne on a table I probably shouldn't put it on and walk with her.

"Not dating? Just a date?" she asks, and I nod. I'm completely changing my strategy now. She has more in common with me than anyone else here. I can use that.

"He seemed nice, and I don't get to wear dresses often," I say. Women who say they don't like wearing dresses and getting ogled are lying. The woman at the gym in spandex without panty lines and a sports bra in full make up with her hair done is lying when she says she's there to work out. Maybe she wants to breathe heavy, but she's there for different kind of cardio.

"Dylan and I dated last year," she says, and my face gives it away that I already knew that. "You already know."

"It's kind of obvious that ended before it should have," I say, and she sighs. "What happened?"

"These kinds of events," she says, looking around us. "I'm not built for these parties. I'm not rich, or some trust fund kid. I'm a scholarship student who became a copyright editor. What the hell am I doing here?"

"I'm a high school dropout who became a locksmith. What the hell am I doing here?" I ask, and she laughs.

"You wanna bail?" she asks. Huh? "Like, get the fuck out of here, and go to a bar that has appetizers the size of this places entrées?"

I look over my shoulder at Dylan and Justin, then back to her. That awkward moment when your paid escort escapes into the night with your intended love interest. And doesn't refund you. Right now, I'm not playing the part of an escort. I'm a last-minute disinterested date who is obviously bored. Running off is how I stay in character.

"Take me, I'm yours," I say in my best Shakespeare, giving her my hand which she takes to save us from this party.

--

This is more my place. Dusty dive bar with deep fried pickles, and the sounds of pool balls clanking drowned by the jukebox that hasn't been updated since before I was born. The lights are dim except for the bar. We sit at the tables outside so I can smoke, and I'm surprised when Vanya lights a Camel right after me. We take off our shoes and place them on an extra chair. I order something local on tap, and she follows my lead.

There are four empty glasses on our table within a half hour, and our third round is on the way. We've talked about work this entire time, and I'm tactically avoiding relationship talk until she's nice and lubed.

"What's the history with you and Dylan? It's clear he wanted me there to make you jealous," I say.

"We met at boarding school when we were teenagers. The school takes a handful of charity cases every year. That year it was Lucas and me. Dylan and I didn't ever date until recently. Hell, I dated Lucas for much of high school."

"He take your V?" I tease.

"He took my V, my B, my whole alphabet," she lists, and I laugh. "Our interest in each other was always just physical. We never kid ourselves."

"What about Dylan?"

"I friend zoned him while wondering why I couldn't find a good guy. After realizing I did that to myself, we tried. And, I don't know. We're fine, just everything else isn't. All our problems came from outside of our relationship."

"How so?"

"He's slumming it, or someone like me must have a motive to be with a man like him," she summarizes. Figured it was something like that.

"I'm on the sidelines and I know you two aren't done. Say fuck the world and do what you want to do with whom you want to do it with," I say, and she slowly grins at me. "Call him and get him to come here."

"No..."

"...call him and get him to come here. Get Lucas too. We'll swap dates," I suggest.

"This was your plan the whole time, huh?" she asks, and I smirk. "I rode that carousel for years. I don't blame you."

Vanya calls Dylan and tells the boys where we are. Lucas had apparently done several laps around the mansion looking for us. They say they'll meet us soon, and she hangs up the phone. We both continue to drink and smoke until they arrived a full half hour later. Vanya and Dylan started their nights with different dates, but they were absorbed into each other the rest of the night. It didn't take long until they looked like teenagers on prom night.

That left me alone with Lucas. He asks for a cigarette, which I give him, telling me he only smokes when he drinks.

"You're a match maker, you know that?" he asks after exhaling the first cloud.

"I know. The way they looked at each other when she walked in, I knew I was going home alone," I say. Lucas gives a doubtful look. He likes his odds, hence the doubt.

"Driver. Locksmith. Matchmaker. When do you sleep?" he asks.

"Thursday," I say with a shrug. He laughs a little, tapping his ash.

"How does, Chief of Security sound on your resume?" he asks.

"Like I'm not qualified," I reply.

"I caught them."

"What?"

"My tire thieves. About four hours after you left, I caught them red handed." That happened a lot faster than I thought it would. They must have been really comfortable in their racket to keep doing it so brazenly. "This is a real offer. We'll work on a contract later, but I need a more permanent security presence. You're qualified, whether or not you think you aren't."

"Can I think about it?" I ask, and he nods. The ashtray is on the other side of my body, and he extends pass me to dap out his cigarette. Getting nice and close to me, making it look natural. I can smell him even over the cigarettes.

"Lucas, we're gonna head out," Dylan says from the other side of the bar. Vanya is nestled liked a baby bird under his arm. Hate to be his bed tonight. "See you Lady."

"That's a freebie, never again," I warn, and they leave laughing. "I would head out, but there goes both of my rides."

"I can take you," he says. "No promise I'm taking you home though."

"Serial killer much?" I ask, still following him to the front of the bar. It looks like he took a company car, because a Rolls Royce in this parking lot really stands out. I'm honestly surprised all the windows are intact and it's still here. "I no shit need to get home."

"I was hoping for a little fun," he says. I like how open he is about his intent. The way some guys pussyfoot around it annoys the shit out of me. There is a game to it, and it's fun to make him feel like he's earned it. Truth be told, most women made up their minds hours ago if they were going to let you fuck them.

"What's your idea of fun?" I reach the Royce and turn around to lean against it. He traps me between it and himself. He grabs my wrists and pins my hands to the sides of my head. "Here's the problem, I like being on top."

"We can take turns. Unfortunately, you need to get home."

"Just because I don't have time to go your place, doesn't take fun off the table," I say, looking over my shoulder to the Rolls Royce with dark tinted windows in a dark parking lot near midnight. "How good is your detail shop?"

"The best," he says, and finally fucking kisses me. The car unlocks, and we crawl into the massive backseat. I immediately straddle him, and his hands are on my dress just as fast. One hand grips my ass, the other finds the zipper. The top of the dress is pulled down with both hands, my bra is flung somewhere, and his mouth is interchanging between my nipples.

My hands find the buttons of his shirt. When I try to tug it off, I end up choking him on accident, forgetting about the tie and top button. Momentary frustration is overcome, and his bare chest and back is my new favorite thing. My nails scratch down his back, making his head lurch off my chest and back to my mouth. Normally, I've already demanded protection, but I've broken that rule enough times recently. Momentum matters in moments like this.

I feel warm hands reach under the dress and find my waist band. My panties are pulled half-way down my thighs, and his fingers start getting me ready. His belt is undone, and he lifts us upwards to pull his pants down to his ankles. I finish my panties, keeping them on my left ankle in the midst of out clothing adjustment. He licks his fingers to moisten the tip of his dick, and I lift the bottom of the dress to lower myself down.

It's sex in the back of a car like we're at prom. Nice dresses and suits we're only going to wear once. This isn't kissy, feely, lovey sex. This is ride him like you're trying to snap his dick in half. He thrusts himself upward hard, and I use the headrest behind him to pull up and drop back down. His hands are all over me, touching, grabbing, pinching. His right hand goes under the dress, and I feel his thumb press against and massage my clit.

Two minutes of clit rubs and hard riding and I cum on his dick. I vocalize it in exhausted gasps. My body drops and tremors. Lucas rolls me over to my back without exiting me, grabs a fistful of dress fabric in both hands, and uses that as reigns to drill me. I swing up and into the door of the car, and I use my hands to keep my head from thudding too hard, but he tugs back with my dress to pull me back. The only sound I can make are squeaks. I watch his face. Focused. Determined. His eyes on mine. At least until it's time for doggy. We slow down a little bit, more relating to space than anything else. I know if he had room to really work, I'd be sitting on a block of ice later.

I ride him again, and his hands rest on my hips. I lift the dress all the way off, now completely naked aside the panties still on my left ankle. I'm slower, I grind harder, I press my tits against his chest and raise them up and across his face. Kissing returns. Hard, body to body with swirling tongues.

"Want me to pull out?" he asks. No, I actually don't. I want all of him. Sweaty sex in a car warrants a regretful creampie. I have enough resources to prevent further regret. Plus, this is nice leather. Every time he shifts his body, I hear it stick to and release his skin.

"How do you want to come?" I ask.

"With your ankles to your ears so I'm as deep as possible," he says. That's an intending to get pregnant position. That's also one last flurry of hard deep dick.

"You better get me there then," I say, and he does. He lifts my left leg for a different angle of penetration. "I was promised my ankles to my ears."

"We'll get there."

It takes a few more minutes, but he's close enough for his finale. Both of my legs go back, he's above me, lowering himself down balls deep, and I don't think anyone has ever been this deep in me. He might as well be executing my ovaries at point blank range with a shotgun.

The window of the car knocks. We both flinch hard, and he climaxes in that weird way when you're trying not to climax. Once that valve is open, it's impossible to close. So instead of seeing this gorgeously ripped man, gleaming with sweat on top of me, grunting as he unleashes, pulling my hips to his to go deeper as he comes harder, I get the face of nervous teenager whose mom walked in with his dick in his hand and hentai on the computer monitor.

"Who the fuck?" Lucas asks. He pulls out of me and leans over to the driver's side to push the ignition button. It doesn't start because he's not pushing down on the brake, but it's all he needs to roll down the window a little.

I cover myself with my dress the best I can short of putting it back on, but he doesn't even bother to at least pull his boxers back up. Lucas rolls down the back window a few inches and sees a police badge.

"You mind stepping out sir?" I hear a familiar voice say. Detective Deacon?

"What's this about?" Lucas asks.

"Indecent exposure for starters but get some clothes on and we'll talk."

Lucas rolls the window up and we get dressed. Before he opens the car door, he shoots a message to his lawyer and steps out. I follow him out a second later, and it is indeed Detective Miles Deacon.

Before Lucas can even ask a question, he tells him he's under arrest and tells me not to move.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Lucas asks. "For what?"

"Soliciting prostitution," Deacon says with a grin like he finally got me. You poor, dumb fuck.

"Prostitution? You can't be serious," Lucas asks. He then handcuffs me and says I'm under arrest for prostitution. "She's not a prostitute you asshole."

"You sure? You pay for a double or a single cylinder?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You called her, said you needed to drill a lock, right?" he asks.

"We were literally at a fund-raiser."

"Sure thing buddy, they all say that."

--

Lucas and I are held in separate rooms at the police station until his lawyer arrives an hour later. Deacon is already celebrating. I can tell by his posture and the way he asks questions. He doesn't know how big of a dick is about to slap that mustache off his face.

"I caught you in the act," Deacon says with his arms cross triumphantly.

"You sure about that?" I ask, tilting my head.

"Pretty sure," he says. "How much he pay you?"

"He didn't," I say, and his smile makes his mustache do a wave. "Did you see money change hands?"

"Could've happened in the bar."

"Not what I asked."

"No, but I got reasonable suspicion."

"Of what? A guy picking me up in a bar? Does that guy look like someone who needs to pay for it?" Even he sees that he doesn't. I see doubt creep into his face a little.

The door opens, and now Detective Kirkpatrick is here too. And she's livid. She doesn't even look in my direction. Just straight at Deacon with daggers in her eyes.

"Deacon, out, now," she orders. Deacon starts to talk but is interrupted. "Not asking, get the fuck out, now." Deacon leaves the room and Kirkpatrick slams the door.

I can't make out much of their conversation, but something about lawsuits and no evidence, and harassment. I hear a door slam down the hall, and my door opens again. Deacon was apparently too pissed to do this part himself. Detective Kirkpatrick holds the door and tells me I'm free to go. I leave the room and see Lucas and who I assume is his lawyer with a satisfied look on his face. Like he just dropped ten metric tons of shit on the police.

"Indecent exposure charges aren't going to be filed in exchange for Mr. Justin not filing a suit against the police department. I was told you've had altercations with this detective before," his lawyer asks me.

"I have. A few places I did lock outs for were robbed not long later, and he thinks I helped the robbers. He's been trying to get me on anything for months," I say, and the lawyer nods.

"I can help you draft a harassment complaint," he offers.

"Before we leave if possible."

--

The lawyer drops me off at my apartment first. Lucas steps out, looks around at the neighborhood and the freeway exit, and then turns to me.

"Making you think less of me?" I ask.

"Quite the opposite," he says. "We lived in a van when our parents left."

"Your sister told me," I say.

"It's always just been Bianca, Ryan, and me. Bianca damn near forced me to go to boarding school. I almost dropped out a few times because I'd rather work. Bianca beat me with her flip flop when I said I was considering it."

That's a good sister. And he's a good brother. Jury is still out on Ryan.

"I need to get to bed, but I'll stop by tomorrow. Let you know what I decided about that offer," I say. He nods and is suddenly not sure how to end this conversation. Do we kiss? I decide we don't and say goodnight before I walk to my door.